


Of Coal and Christmas Trees

by inK_AddicTion



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, nothing particularly dire, warnings are above each chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inK_AddicTion/pseuds/inK_AddicTion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unconnected prompts and other Pitchmas works transferred from my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I almost lost you

**Author's Note:**

> suicidal thoughts

At first, North dismissed it as Pitch being simply unused to not fighting alone.

Their tentative wartime truce was a new one, after all. Nerves and tempers were still frayed from the last destructive Easter battle, but when Mother Nature had called for the spirits to rise up against a troublesome desert sprite and her followers, all previous conflicts had to be put aside.

North was pleased at an opportunity for peace. He hadn’t been lying, all those years ago when he’d offered Pitch a place as a Guardian, and he’d hoped that the rare opportunity would show Pitch that he too had a chance to be part of their group. 

However, it seemed only North felt this way. Sandy was downright antagonistic and Jack suspicious, Bunny was cruel and Tooth was bitter. Pitch was dismissive and contemptuous of them all; except for North, who he did not quite know how to treat, put off by North’s relentless, cheery offers of friendship and companionship. 

But even that wouldn’t have been an issue, if only Pitch weren’t so reckless. He threw himself at each battle like he didn’t want to come out of the other end, and while his passionate fury was both incredible and inspiring to watch, it was also somewhat… concerning. 

The other Guardians were more than happy for Pitch to take the most devastating hits for them, especially as the other spirit seemed to relish the opportunity to charge headlong into battle, taking risks with a fearless carelessness that made even North’s hardened nerves wince. He didn’t appear to even notice the danger he readily put himself in, executing stunts that held risks of, if not death, then permanent and fatal injury.

But this had gone too far.

Pitch breathed but shallowly, and his grey skin was the pale, washed-out colour of a listless artist’s palette, an endless march of dull lead canvases and sullen skies. Rather than the vibrant, hair-raising electric tingles of anxiety that jetted along North’s synapses whenever he was in close proximity with Pitch, there was a tired, unbothered sort of worry, like a vague apprehension that had long since been cast aside. Even his matte black, shadow wreathed hair lay oddly colourless, limp and greasy-looking on a too-white pillow that made him look like a slip of ghost laminated between pristine white sheets.

But it was the bandages that wrapped around his torso like a safety jacket that drew North’s eyes, more around his left shoulder, another around his right thigh, giving him a bizarre, lumpy shape under the blanket. Underneath, there oozed the sickly stench of burns, raised red puckered skin swollen and twisted. 

Pitch had run, careless of the inevitable attack, directly in front of their fiery opponent just as they had swung for North. Inadvertently self-sacrificing though it may have been, North cursed him for a bitter fool both then, with Bunny’s paws moving frantically over that crushed and scorched body, Sandy pillowing Pitch’s tossing head as he’d rambled in pain, Tooth keeping watch from a high tree and Jack soothing the heat where he could, one of the only times they had all worked for him rather than against him, and now, when they were alone in a roughly furnished room in Yggdrasil, Mother Nature’s home base. 

“You fool,” he said again, watching Pitch’s eyes flicker underneath his lids, half-cracking open to reveal green-gold eyes in the leaf-tinted shade of the sunlight that poured through the webbing canopy of leaves that acted as a roof. 

Pitch inhaled, painfully, but something thin etched grooves into his face when he noticed North, hunched over on the small, three-legged stool that was the only furniture save the bed, and watching him with sharp blue eyes that rang with solemn almost-grief.

“Better…me…than…you,” Pitch rasped, slowly and dryly. He fumbled for a glass of water at his bedside. North simply let him struggle with a hard frown.

“We almost lost you,” North said flatly.

 _I almost lost you,_ he thought. Strange that he had become so possessive of the Boogeyman’s company, but as with all things the moment they threatened being taken away forever, at once North recognised how much he loved Pitch’s dry sarcasm, his elegant and precise manner, and his prickly respect. 

“I am on my way out anyway. You’ve made it perfectly clear there’s no place for me in your world,” Pitch shrugged with one shoulder, stiffly, and his tired eyes, ringed with blue black bruises, stared at North dimly over the edge of the glass. 

In return, North found himself glancing away minutely as shame flushed his cheeks. He was well aware of the insults hurled and spat at the Boogeyman, their derisive and dismissive actions, and was hardly innocent in them. Since being forced to work together, quirks and foibles had become distressingly… endearing, and North had found himself looking forward to the dry and sarcastic banter Pitch provided, his lithe movements and fresh, unexpected viewpoints. He inspired North. But he knew he was just as bad as the other Guardians. 

Nonetheless, he protested hotly, “There’s always a need for fear!” And so long as there was fear, they would be there to fight it. It was the way it had always worked.

“There are thousands of fear spirits across the globe. Every culture has a skulker in the dark that whispers and cajoles,” said Pitch, bitterly, as if this community of fellows was a rejection in of itself - perhaps it was, if they were all so recalcitrant as Pitch. “But in this world, this modern, sensible age, there’s no need for me. You’ll get a new dark spirit eventually.” He smiled slightly, but it looked false. “People always need to believe there’s some darkness out there trying to get them. Perhaps if you’re lucky you’ll get a spirit who believes in dualism, something similar.”

He cracked a wry grin. “After me, I bet Sandman would be pleased  with that. But I doubt it. These people are too warlike.”

North was in shock, shaking his head as if it could dispel the fatalistic words. Pitch had existed before the earth had been civilised. Pitch Black was _older than dirt,_ and he was such a permanent fixture of life that any thought of a world without him was inconceivable. What was more, selfishly, North thought that Pitch _couldn’t_ fade, not now, North couldn’t lose him just when he was starting to discover him.

“But- you are ancient! Cannot happen!” _What happened to ‘you can’t kill fear?’_ Pitch was lying, was being overdramatic; the recent battle had rattled them all and Pitch was dispirited in his recovery.

“I have adapted to stay with the times. No longer do I have my Fearlings, my only companions in my misery, my Dream Pirates, my great and shadowy forms,” Pitch spat harshly. His hairless brow creased with a deep, dragging sort of frown, tiredness rounding and slumping his shoulders. “But the cycle of all things is to end and be replaced. While you Guardians may have your oath and moon to protect you, I have nothing but the fickle belief of scared children. It is not the Dark Ages anymore.”

“But… Balance…” North’s defence was flimsy and he knew it. But fear was necessary, it was the most obvious thing in the world. Pitch had to be there, so they could be there.

“You do not want balance, Guardian. You do not want me.”

 _That’s not true!_ Oh, by all the composers in the world – no one could convict North of not _wanting_ Pitch, even if he had resented his existence. They all _wanted_ Pitch at some point. North was just… still waiting to grow over his share.

“If you did, you wouldn’t have overthrown me in the Dark Ages. Well, perhaps it’s useless. They would have never have lasted,” Pitch mused bleakly.

“We will not let this end - let you end! I will not. I… I will find ways to make children believe - I will -” North started.

Even if he had to do it alone, North was determined. He would not lose Pitch so soon after he had got him. And to think, if it hadn’t been for Pitch’s added recklessness this time, Pitch would have slipped away like smoke without North having so much of a inkling that his time was running out. Panic seized him with icy, nauseous claws, and his mind began wondering rapidly what else Pitch had been hiding, how much danger and pain the other spirit was truly in.

“Go play with your toys, magician. Forget me. It is what you have always done. Why would it be any different now?” Pitch mocked, eyes sharp, piercing, flaying open North’s most festering humiliations and leaving them exposed, flinching, to the air.

“I will not forget you, Pitch Black! You say I will lose you - I do not want that!” It came dangerously close to a truth that suddenly made Pitch flinch, his eyes widening. North sucked in a breath like he could bring the words back, and the connotations that went with them. It was still too raw to be appropriate.

After a moment, Pitch reacted with characteristic fiery dismissal. “Why would you care? You, who have hurt me so greatly over the years, who have beaten me down every time I tried to stand!”

His bitter accusations rang uncomfortably true, and North felt his skin prickling with ugly shame once again. Clenching his fists with impotent helplessness, he glowered down at Pitch’s hand, limp on the woven green blanket, and studied the elegant, pale fingers. Irrelevantly, he wondered how those slender hands would feel dwarfed by his strong, stubby ones. He placed his hand on the edge of the bed, close, but far enough away not to intrude, and returned to staring at his boots. He didn’t want to hear this.

“…I’m fading already, North,” said Pitch, softer now, gently. 

He lightly covered North’s hand with his own, and North was transfixed by the sight of it. Pitch’s broad palm barely fit over his roughened knuckles, but North turned his hand so he could weave their fingers together anyway. There was an attempt at comfort in the way Pitch rubbed his thumb over the back of North’s hand.

“It would be far kinder to let me suffer some quick death, rather than the slow and wasting one that awaits me,” Pitch told him.

“Then I suppose, perhaps it is good that the Guardians have never been in the business of being kind to you,” North said, slowly, but gaining strength as he spoke. He looked up and met Pitch’s eyes with a fierce blue stare. “I will not lose you without a fight!” Not when he had just almost lost him through his own negligence.

Pitch turned his face away with a faint, sad, defeated little smile, but his hand squeezed North’s just a little tighter, like a lifeline.

North had almost lost Pitch before he’d had the chance to have him, know him, and he refused to let it happen again. As they sat there, holding hands while Pitch’s breathing eventually evened out and he fell into a fitful rest, North watched him, and thought that there would be no fight too great.


	2. work of art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forced gagging, suffocation

A band of marauders staggered along a narrow clifftop path, sharp eyes squinting into the lashing rain and thick Russian voices cursing the wetness that weighted their sodden coats and warm furs. The howling rain drove down into their eyes, and the swirling gusts battered them like the playful paws of hunting snow-wolves from legend. Single-file, they trudged miserably, wet clothing chilling them right down to the bone and buffeted carelessly by the shrieking wind. Each step was a battle.

Their leader pointed a drawn sword, flashing and gleaming with cold pale light, down into the lee of the valley below, which promised some shelter from the screeching wind if not the listless rain that had haunted them since they had entered this cursed land, hounding and hindering them away from their prize. His rough voice was snatched by the wind, but the bandits understood well.

Slipping and skidding down the slick, dangerous, grey rocks, monochrome and oddly distinct in the colourlessness of the rainstorm, the bandits grabbed each other by their powerful arms and took a winding side-path that arrowed down to the depths of the sheer and barren valley. It was a curiously deserted place, atmospheric certainly, with the booming and furious clouds streaking them with salt and heavy grey disapproval lining every ridged rock brow.

At the far end, the slow-opened eye of a cave mouth gaped; the leader of the bandits had seen it from the trail, and thought it would make adequate shelter until the rainstorm passed. The wind seemed to only increase as they neared the cave, whipping their clothing with vociferous intensity that pushed them back a step. Nevertheless, these were sturdily built Russian men, and with the promise of shelter in sight they were dogged and relentlessly persistent.

The storm was truly fierce, as if even it was warning them to stay far away. The village of Tanglewood was not far, the wind seemed to plead, where waited warm beds, ale and most likely a bored village lass or two. Nothing like a damp and bleak cave carved into the side of a cliff.

Perhaps they might have turned back, if they had known what they would find in that deep, dark and mysterious cave.

Or perhaps not, knowing the disposition of these particular bandits. For this was no ordinary pack of savage marauders, but the band of Nicholas St North himself, the King of Bandits, who had singlehandedly stolen half of Russia’s riches, sold it to the other half, then stole it back again.

He was ranging admittedly far out of his usual ground, but North had handled, pocketed, or stolen every treasure Russia had to offer, now he ventured to a new land, one he had never before walked, in search of a mysterious treasure written of only in the most ancient and dark of lore books, and spoken of in admiring and fearful tones by the avaricious aspiring magicians of the age.

The lore – or rather, the terrified, knock-kneed magician North had ‘interviewed’ – spoke of a meek little village called Tanglewood where restless dreams, unnaturally long winters and all sorts of fantastical mishaps were purported to take place, and nearby, a dark cave cut into the cliffside where the harbinger of night slept. North had scoffed these stories, but the magician, eager in his fear, had scrambled out drawings, in a variety of hands and a variety of skill, but with a few key similarities; the pose of a man, lying as if flung against a pillar, a jewelled spear sprouting from his breast. From these, North had surmised that it was a statue, exquisitely detailed and worth a great deal, shrouded in myth and mystery as these precious objects so often were to protect them from the faint of heart.

There was not a single coward in North’s brave and dastardly band, and determined, North had set out to claim the statue himself, bring it back to Russia, and gamble, drink and whore the money he got from it long away with the rest of his men.

They had stopped through Tanglewood to get directions to the cave, and North privately thanked the sensible villagers’ clear instructions as they reached the relative shelter of the cave. The visibility had been poor, the weather poorer still, and the toll it was taking on his hardy and uncomplaining men was greater than he’d liked to admit. However, they were there now – at least, they ought to be.

Once every man had scrambled inside, the wind outside dropped off with a low, mournful keen. It had done all it could, now it was time to admit to its mistress it had failed. Oblivious to this, the bandits proceeded immediately further into the cave and began shedding their most soaked outer layers.

Relieved yelling went up as the grateful men found scores of dry wood, stacked inside by some hibernating animal long gone, untouched by the rain. Within moments, they had a cheery fire going that splashed shadows on the wall, and sat around it, their scarred and terrible faces thrown into a hideous monstrosity by the halflight from the flickering fire, and the washed-out slanting grey from outside.

North scooped up a flaming torch and thrust it ahead of him, calling to Sergei the Terrible, the driest of his men (in all senses),  to accompany him further into the cave. No excuse for patience was acceptable to Nicholas St North, eager to see this wonder with his own eyes.

The shadows grew darker and deeper the further they went, until all natural light from the fire and the sky were long gone. As they rounded bends in the twisting passageway, even the men’s voices seemed to fade away, and Sergei and North were alone in the darkness of the cave, with tonnes of rock pressing down on them from above and a certain clammy coldness to the air. North shivered, wishing he had paused to at least warm his bones by the fire, but forged on nonetheless.

His torch fire wavered weakly in the gathering darkness, quailing from the depth of malevolent misfortune it could feel in the cursed place. The light it cast was weak but much appreciated in the utter blackness of the place. North felt Sergei’s hand on his back, following him loyally into the jaws of the darkness.

North’s boot found drenching, icy cold water, and the torchlight reflected in dizzying gleams off the glassy black surface of a stagnant lake, hidden underground. The stench hung gravid and low, and North winced, covered his nose with his free hand. A rocky precipice jutted over the river, arching into darkness towards a lessening in the black ugliness that surrounded them, a patch slightly unfitting with the rest.

North’s instincts pulled him towards it, and trusting his belly, he went, feeling his way carefully over the ledge and ignoring Sergei’s cursing of him as a fool. He tested each step before he placed his weight on it, knowing well the dangers of being submerged in icy cold water whilst holding the only light and warmth. He approached the flattening of the ledge, until it formed a small islet, unbeknownst to North, in the direct centre of the lake.

However, it was only when North walked directly into the haft of the spear, handily positioned at his eye-level, that he realised he had found the statue.

A series of truly vulgar Russian curses fled from his lips, staining the air around them as North nursed his sore eye, glaring at the now revealed spear. Even Sergei, standing not  far away, winced, and the torch’s flame seemed to quiver.

Once his ire had faded, North was able to examine the spear, approving of the workmanship in awe. It was like nothing he had ever seen, jet black and glossy, carven all over with swirling, interconnected lines and of a material utterly unfamiliar. A tingle zinged up his skin when he touched it. North ran his fingers admiringly over the weapon, down towards the blade, but before he could reach it, his fingers encountered the chest of the statue, wherein the spear was buried.

North lifted the torch, peering up towards where he presumed the statue’s face to be. He jumped, startled, and cursed again. 

The torchlight had caught in two half-closed eyes in the statue’s face, flashing yellow like dying suns. They were divided by a thin, straight nose, and a proud, sulky mouth, delicately sculpted by the most worshipful of hands. The statue’s face had dramatically hollowed cheekbones in smooth, dramatic sweeps of cold grey stoneflesh, which the shadows saturated, licked and lapped at every sunken line in the man’s face, and was carven of some sort of stone both cool and silky to the touch, like grey soapstone, and if North had to guess he’d suppose the eyes were of citrine. He had never seen a finer quality citrine, though, it seemed to flash and glimmer deceptively in the firelight with a light of its own, though the statue gave the impression of a man half-lost in deep dreams. 

The statue wore a real coat of fabric, hanging heavily off the stone shoulders and likely too heavy for a flesh-man to lift, softer than a manta ray’s belly and curiously, dryly slick, as if an oilstain had sunk into it many years ago.

North’s eyes were wide with wonder, and he breathed not a curse this time but a murmur of thanks, for letting him witness such a thing. It was masterfully created, every detail in the face was exquisite, and the man seemed so lifelike, so cold and beautifully preserved that it was as if he were nothing more than a few seconds dead, not a thousand year old statue left to wither in a pool of cave water.

Looking at it, North was suddenly struck by an eldritch sense of _other,_ the vividness and intensity of the statue’s presence was beyond anything made of human hands. This was a creature designed by the gods in the stars, but whether it was a work of evil or goodness North could not say. A cruelty struck true in the sharp, defined brows of the statue’s face, the edge of a dark lip too easily pulled into a smirk. It was dangerous, and North felt it as quivers of something electric thrumming through his nerves, like the statue was a live-wire and North a conductor that had just realised his true purpose.

The statue was a work of art, and North’s fingers curled away from the statue’s coat, unable to shake the sudden, uncharacteristic sense that this was a masterpiece that was not for him to touch. A chill ran up his spine like the lick of a whip, sharp and stinging like the rain on his face or the tears that suddenly welled up in his eyes, opened as wide as he could as if a single blink would cause the statue to disappear before his eyes.

It was a majestic, magnificent sort of deadliness, and North’s mind fell over itself in wonder at the tribute to the artist’s model – for there was stamps of human in the fae, beautiful face, something _before_ like the base model of a drawing that had been inked in and now, ignorant of the crafting process, North witnessed the final piece.

All around it the shadows seemed to sway, breathe, caress, and North could feel a prickling not too dissimilar from pins and needles working over his visible skin, like a thousand curious gnat bites. A soft murmur was present, one that rose and feel with the vibrant echo of something that danced just past his cognizance. The whisper was cajoling, seductive, slithering, but there was nothing reassuring or sweet in it, unless it was sickly.

He stared for a long time, lost in wonder, until he became conscious of a great shouting in his ears, one that blocked out the whispering susurrus that had climbed, insidious, inside of his skull whilst he had been lost in thought.  It was all his men, ringed around him with torches and concern in their eyes, and suddenly North’s knees buckled, and his legs gave way.

“You’ve been standing there all night,” one said, and another, “It’s haunted, the stories were true.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” cried North. “I was simply… thinking how best to transport him.” He could barely catch blurred glimpses of his men – had they always been so colourless, so dull, so tedious in appearance? Had North once thought them fierce companions? It seemed far away and deluded, before the stones had been cast from his eyes.

A few of the men glanced at him, but North was oblivious to their concern. “If we remove the spear,” said North, “We can push him through the passageway, and carry him in a cart.” Something ached in fury at that degradation, and he winced and found himself wordlessly apologising to a nameless entity.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, North,” one said nervously, but North brushed him off dismissively.

“Don’t be such a worryer – you have left your mother behind!”

A few of the men laughed weakly, and North grinned boisterously, good spirits restored. That little whisper was there again, encouraging him, flattering him, and North’s cheeks flushed warm under praise he couldn’t understand, murmured in a language that lingered too-long in his ears, but he acted as if drunk, clear eyes dulling with beautiful delusions and control sabotaged.

Without a second thought, he reached back and yanked the haft of the spear free. It lingered in his grip like it did not want to leave.

A bright flash lit up their eyes, so bright it seemed to sear the colour from the world. For a moment, the whole world was suspended in time, and North perceived his men falling like ragdolls around him. A great strength welled up from _somewhere,_ along with an ominous tide of maniacal revelry. Pleasure bloomed behind his ribcage and his heart shook with a fiery sort of pain, but as North turned, magnetised, to meet the statue’s eyes, all he could feel was an incredible, pure wonder.

An eerie wind shook and howled the cave, and dust plumed from the ceiling. Their coats whipped around their ankles and the men shouted as the dust blinded them. North was impervious to it. The rumbling vibration carried through their boots, threatening to throw them off balance. A few of the less sturdy men toppled as they tried to get back to their feet, with grunts and curses that sounded far away and unimportant.

An arrowshaft of pure white joy shot through North’s heart and up the passage, away to freedom, with the tinkling of a boy’s laugh. He choked and the spear fell, somewhere, and a pain so fierce and hard that it became pleasure raced through his body, burning him up from the inside out. An unfurling something roared inside of him, and a bonfire consumed what was human in North, charring it away until the purity of something wholly _other_ remained. Emotions slipped, hazy and dull, through his fingers, and memories that had moments ago seemed vibrant appeared now in blurry sepias. Light thrilled through every nerve, and its wake darkness seemed to descend, sink languorous and lazy into veins and cells deprived of that electric joy.

But still there was that haunted face, those scintillating eyes. Wonder rose up within him, unfolded like a rose, and had North been looking at himself he would have seen his form begin to shimmer and waver at the edges, like a smoky mirage. A new spirit began  to incinerate the flesh of its cage, and North the bandit, was held captive by an ancient king’s slow, yellow stare, the flat gaze of a predator that had his prey in his claws.

His men shouted in alarm. Their leader was shimmering faintly, all of his colours brightened to incredible vivacity, the reds of his coat like the blanket of burning embers on cold winter nights, the flush of his cheeks the heat of firelight, the bright blue of his eyes the ice that formed on cold porches, the darkness of his hair the brush of night, solid and at once pierced, against the windowpane, his warrior’s hands alive and clever with some latent magic that thrummed and pulsed. A great wonder came over them all, for even with the festering darkness swelling behind him they were transfixed by North, a birth of something beyond their words to describe.

At once, the lake came alive – and North saw he had been mistaken, it was not water at all but shadows, lying so thickly and heavily they congealed together like water. He could see it now, their tangible energy, and wondered how he had ever mistaken their hissing language, every word seemed to brand itself behind his eyelids, forced open as they were, forced to witness.

That stagnant and pungent stench hung heavily around, choking their breath like slow-moving and turgid gas. The cloying shadows began to spiral and rise, twisting together into a hurricane that dripped and splattered the cave floor with burrowing grubs of darkness that twisted blindly into new holes, and the statue – no, not a  statue – suddenly heaved a great breath, the wound on his breast seeping an inky poison that clung, visibly, in the air as corruption, live and sickly. North saw it as a black butterfly, unutterably gorgeous.

His men, wiser perhaps, less influenced, saw it for the hideous maggot it was.

The banked yellow of the citrine eyes lit up like fire beneath his half-closed eyes, oh, they were gold, gold, _gold,_ nothing so _mortal_ and _insignificant_ as a yellow, imitable by the fragile efforts of men, no, this was the captive heart of a broken star, beaten and broken and whipped but shining, shining until every last dream faded. But no – not gold, not even that, these were polluted by silvery white, the white of blindness and rage, the blind white of hunger warping and corrupting a noble purpose to greedy, insatiable lust.

He could see the lust in them, could see the bitter, mad, vengeful hunger that called to eclipse a _world_. The black sky came alive to swallow the sun and there was nothing North could do but admire its destructiveness. A crown of darkness wreathed about his head, taller than any mortal man.

North backed away, held silent in the grip of awed terror, hardly aware of the screams of his men as the shadows came alive and ate them whole, greedy white eyes and sharp teeth that ripped and plunged into the flesh of men. Blood sprayed, dimly ruby in the enveloping blackness, and the brightness of the joy mattered nothing, until the only light emanated from North himself, standing before that great and terrible king, not with fear but with an incredible sense of wonder that held him senseless.

The great king straightened _up_ and _up_ and _up,_ as mighty as ten men and thirty times as twisted, a knifeblade smile splitting a cruel cold face, but with an edge of weakness – even a king so terrible could not fend off weakness after spending so long trapped to a rock. Nonetheless, it was  with a definite command that his form reduced, folding in on itself until a man, slight and humanoid, yet something so far beyond humanity it was incomparable, rested in the air, supported by great plumes of darkness. He reclined like a careless emperor surveying a disobedient servant, and North’s knees trembled and shook, his neck ached and strained, but something deep within refused the silent command to _bow_ with an iron core.

A curious interest lit up the searing eyes, and a black tongue flicked wetly out over thin lips. The king wanted to know what newborn spirit dared to stand as his former comrades were slaughtered right before his unseeing eyes. With something like a smirk, the statue turned king met North’s eyes. For a moment they hung, then with a sigh that rumbled terror and darkness through his black lips, he fell forward into North’s startled arms.

“Thank you!” the king laughed when North, too surprised to react, caught him even as he was driven to the floor. The king loomed above him with something thirsty and cruel in his starved face, his glittering sharp teeth. “You set me free!” The head tilted, impossibly birdlike, inhuman, and a black smile warped wider.

“What are you?” North demanded in a tone not far shy of fear. Wariness, perhaps. Curiosity.

“I am Pitch Black,  the Nightmare King, the pirate scourge of the galaxies,” said the Nightmare King, and grinned, slow, savouring North’s horrified surprise. “And you, little wonder-spirit, are playing with something you cannot possibly comprehend.” His voice was silk sheets and screams, rustling with whispering whines and soft gasps held under the night. It was a sound both terribly spine-chilling and intimately invasive.

With a roll of the shoulders that cracked bones all the way down his spine, the King fisted his hand in North’s hair to hold him still. His touch crept and crawled with itching shadows, clawing and catching at North’s dark hair. Pitch yanked North’s head back, breathing a languid sigh when it forced North to bare his throat. An age-old posture of submission, and it pleased Pitch greatly, North could tell in the way the thin body shook and rolled with dripping shadows, stretching somewhat like – butterfly wings, he thought, irrelevantly.

Pitch darted forward, so much so like a striking viper that North flinched, and then squirmed in unpleasant surprise as a slippery, sinuous tongue painted a stripe up to his chin. He was torn between horror and captivation.

Pitch’s other hand walked two fingers along his cheek, swiping his thumb over North’s bottom lip with something similar to tenderness. He leaned back up again, victory stamped into his every proud feature.

“You may consider it an indirect kiss, little spirit,” said Pitch, and North jerked and tried to pull away when Pitch’s fingers abruptly shoved into his mouth, the claws sharp on the back of his throat. He bit down, hard, but Pitch just chuckled, with an almost fond look.

North, frozen, stared with wide blue eyes as Pitch’s mouth slowly opened and a vile sickness oozed slowly out, a sickness that had grabbing little hands and blinking, slick white eyes. It did not come easily, North could hear the bones of Pitch’s jaw cracking and his cheeks bulging almost to the point where hairline cracks began to appear. The edges of his mouth ripped wider, and the white in his eyes overtook the gold.

Blackness dripped off his lips, running down his chin and dipping between the sharp rise of his collarbones like thick turgid syrup. The shadows stretched towards him, and North began to suddenly struggle, kicking and trying to get away from the eldritch, macabre horror.

The strange, light-bright thing inside of him was still insisting that he look up into the  incredible sight of the monster’s shining eyes, see the fluttering lace at the fringes of the shadows, marvel at the sensations of the cool stone floor and Pitch’s slight weight, the strength of his hand in North’s hair. It was incredibly distracting and North forgot almost as he began to struggle why he was doing so, lost in wonder as fear reached to consume him.

Terror gripped him, but that new, alien core still refused to believe that there was any danger. It was naïve, where a bandit’s skills were sharp, but the insistence of it overcame lifetime habits. The diseased shadows were reaching for him, mouthing wetly at him like blind birds waiting for their next meal. 

North did _not_ want to be their next meal.

He mustered the strength to thump Pitch, hammering at his shoulder, yanking at the heavy dark coat like lead wings. Pitch’s eyes burned as he he let North try, let him fight only to fail. North bucked and twisted, but it was like Pitch was a rock on his stomach, and his very touch brought a deep, dragging sort of terror, mind-numbing and freezing, pulses that made strangled yells tear out of him, muffled by Pitch’s fingers holding his mouth open, spread for his shadows to violate. They came nearer, nearer, and North felt uncharacteristic tears of sheer helplessness and frustration well up in his eyes, clouding his vision.

It was useless, the king was as immoveable as the stone North had believed him to be.

“Yes,” breathed Pitch, “Oh yes. You’re crying!” He sounded delighted. “I will make you do it again later.”

North bit his fingers again, harder, so hard the skin split and black blood oozed over his tongue, but Pitch didn’t even notice. He was surveying his captured prize with the utmost pleasure.

“Don’t be scared, now,” Pitch crooned, apparently only just observing his distress. “It only riles them up. And we are so, so very hungry.” He offered a false sort of smile. “I’m sure you understand how _thankful_ we are for your service, _my_ little wonder-spirit.”

The last thing North heard before the shadows dripped down onto his exposed face, squirming into his mouth, ears and eyes, choking all breath in him and sucking all soul out as they went, before his body went rigid with a scream of haunted agony that would never end, was the King’s low, chuckling laughter of pure chaotic glee.

And yet, despite his horror, North still wasn’t quite so afraid as he was supposed to be. His young, weak, fledgling core was broken and swallowed by the weight of the shadows, but a little light still stubbornly shone.

It was, after all, an indirect kiss.


	3. naughty and nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for pitchmas week. no warnings save Sandy, who should be a warning in of himself

North steepled his fingers and stared at Pitch, fidgeting on the chair in front over him, imposingly over his large desk. “Pitch Black,” he intoned importantly, “You are the top of Nice List this year.”

Pitch’s mouth dropped open. “Pardon?” he said weakly, and North smiled warmly at him, though inside, he was in just as much shock as Pitch was.

“You are top of Nice List!” He infused joy into his tone, and witnessed the extremely disturbing and somewhat touching scene of the centuries-old Boogeyman lighting up with excitement, an effusive smile cracking out yellow, craggy teeth, lips bared like black snakes, yellow eyes like gimlet flames in the skull of a dead man.

As unnatural as the smile was, it was quite obviously genuine.

“Oh! Does that mean I get to sit in your lap and tell you what I want and you give it to me?” He had seen this done in shopping centres all over the world, for all ages. Never did it occur to him that this request might be odd in some way.

North stared. Was Pitch pranking him, or, was it…? Their truce was still young, and no one was _quite_ comfortable with each other yet. Certainly not for such a proposal – North was not stupid, he knew very well the connotations of that request. He’d been friends with Sandy for thousands of years, North believed he’d heard every Santa related innuendo there was to hear, or rather see.

 _He’s… he’s actually serious,_ he thought in baffled wonderment.

“If… if you must,” he said uneasily, and immediately Pitch rose, fluid and sleek.

_He’s doing it – he’s actually doing it – act natural??_

North’s chair scraped harshly over the wood as he pushed it back to give Pitch enough space to slide between him and the desk. He may as well just go with this and see where Pitch took it. He swallowed as the slender Boogeyman eyed his lap, figuring out the best way to sit.

North’s face flamed. He could not believe this was happening. Pitch had to have discovered the way North thought about him, thoughts that had less to do with friendship and more to do with… well, things that did _not_ belong on the Nice List. Did this mean… did this mean that Pitch wanted it too? Was this the precursor to something North had wanted for a very long time?

_Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no way he would choose you._

Pitch stood over him, legs planted either side of North, hands bracing himself on North’s broad shoulders. North was treated to a rather lovely view as Pitch’s robe gaped open, revealing his lean, toned chest, right down to the dark waistband of his leggings. A dark scar arched over his ribcage, and North wondered what would happen if he kissed along it.

Awkwardly, he placed his hands on Pitch’s hips to steady him. He could feel the bone against his hands. Then Pitch sat down, straddling North comfortably. North uttered a choked noise.

The situation immediately worsened when Pitch tightened his thighs around North’s legs, evidently used to riding horses, since the action was instinctive, and leaned up to whisper in North’s ear. His hot breath puffed against North’s jawline, and quietly North wondered what he had ever done to deserve this hell.

“I want,” said Pitch softly, nervously, “I want you to do… to do the thing parents do when their children have a bad nightmare.”

The thoughts were banished from North’s mind in favour of confusion. Unconsciously, he copied Pitch’s low tone, somehow sensing that this was a private thing. “What do you mean?” he whispered.

Squirming with embarrassment, Pitch pressed his face into North’s shoulder, muffling his meek words even further, until North had to strain to hear him. “When they… when they put their arms around… and they sit.”

A hug. He meant a hug.

Pitch Black wanted a hug for Christmas.

The thought was simultaneously so sad and sweet that North complied immediately, wrapping his arms around Pitch’s skinny body in a bone-crushing embrace so tight it drove a panicked squeak out of Pitch’s lungs. After a moment of flailing, Pitch realised he could still breathe, and sagged.

North sniffled in a manly way, rubbing Pitch’s stick-thin bony shoulders. “It is fine,” he said, “All is well.” He patted Pitch’s head, the whole curve of his skull able to fit into North’s massive palm.

Pitch snuggled into him, fingers  burrowing into North’s shirt and forehead ducking under his chin. The lanky boogeyman was bent almost double, but the stress of his spine barely seemed to bother the flexible man.

Spread wide, North’s fingers could almost span the entire length of his skinny back. There was no fat on Pitch, only lean whipcord covered in heated velvet skin, layered by cool, slick shadows. The coat’s interesting texture occupied him for a moment, though he was doing his best to ignore how the shadows – there really was no other word – occasionally _licked_ his hand. North patted Pitch’s back with a low hollow thud.

“Ow,” said Pitch, in a muffled voice, and North loosened his grip, sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said, but Pitch’s head shook minutely.

“It’s fine,” he said in a wavering voice. “You- you can hold me tighter if you want.” He never wanted the moment to end; privately there was no feeling he enjoyed more than being surrounded by safe, powerful warm body.

“As you wish,” said North, and hugged him harder than he’d hugged any living human that wasn’t immediately crushed.

Pitch’s ribs creaked threateningly. He breathed in North’s scent, allowed his eyes to lid and his muscles to relax, and refused to move.

The hug continued for a lot longer than what was really comfortable. After a while, North cautiously tried to check if Pitch was actually still awake, however as soon as he tried to move him, Pitch uttered some eldritch snarl that had all the shadows in the room suddenly gaining brilliant white eyes.

Now treated to an audience of blinking, blind white Fearlings, North kept very, very still and wished he had his sabers on him. The next time he foolishly attempted a movement, they lunged, teeth extended, and Pitch’s clawed hands tightened.

“ _No.”_

Perhaps… he had not entirely thought this through.

* * *

Uncountable hours later, an uncomfortable North called Sandy into his office, still rather flustered and awkwardly close to his desk. The Sandman slouched in his chair, a cup of eggnog nonchalant in his hand and warm gold eyes amused at some cosmic joke. His eyes darted to North’s lap, and his grin widened.

“Now,” said North, “Sandy. What am I going to do with you? You are top of the Naughty List _again._ ”

Sandy eyed his lap again. _Really, North, I’d be flattered if I didn’t know it wasn’t for me. Pitch was just in here, wasn’t he?_

North spluttered, taken aback by Sandy’s upfront approach. Subtlety was never Sandy’s strong point. “No- I mean – I _do not-”_

Sandy leaned over the desk, a hint of a smirk playing around his full lips. _North, he’s been dreaming of him being on your lap almost as long as you have. You might want to make a move before someone else does…_

“This is why you are on Naughty List! Your… your ideas!” North protested.

Sandy downed his drink, North watched him swallow and gulped. He may have once fended off an army with a bent steak knife, but facing off with a flirtatious Sandman was a different matter entirely. Sandy set the glass down with a definitive click, raised unrepentant and gleaming eyes to North’s.

 _In that case,_ even the sand shapes seemed to purr, _I suppose I have been ever so naughty, North. Care to punish me?_


	4. mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for pitchmas week.

North scoured the dark street, his sharp eyes suspicious under his white brows, knotting like a roiling stormcloud. His saber’s hilt was warm in his palm, his coat familiar like battle armour over his shoulders. Snow fell faintly from the sky, somehow out of place, and the late December streets were slick with ice, treacherous underfoot had North been anyone else. Open alleys mocked him with their darkness, the depths flashing glinting golden eyes that flickered away whenever North tried to pursue.

Christmas was in five days, but instead of being in the warm Workshop, hurriedly putting the last preparations in place, North was outside, hunting through the silent, snowy streets for a sign of Pitch Black.

It had started with Jack reporting that Pitch was showing up more often than normal, kicking off a fuss and then disappearing. His little shows were getting bigger and bigger as they neared Christmas, and the Guardians, worried that Pitch was going to try something on North’s day, had split up to find him and stop him. They were all twitchy from that disastrous Easter, not too long ago.

He knew Pitch was close, knew it in the shiver of anticipation that played over the hairs on the nape of his neck, knew it in the twisting in his stomach. He was not afraid of Pitch Black, but his shadowy powers were insidious and impossible to escape, like a labyrinth mired in molasses and quicksand. His presence was easy to detect, the subtle vibrations of another spirit moving through the stretched thin lines of reality and time-space.

Frustratingly, that was as far as he could get. The jagged prescience told him that Pitch wasn’t far, but _where_ was he?

He proceeded cautiously down an alleyway, swords held aloft. His boots splashed through thin, still puddles, gleaming like glossy black ink. Yellow eyes appeared in the gloom, and North raised his swords.

“Stop this game, Pitch,” he ordered roughly, glaring at the dark. “I have no patience today.”

Pitch’s eyes glinted wickedly as he emerged from the darkness, lean grey form smothered in shadows like they couldn’t bear to let him leave. “Ooh,” he purred, “I’m scared. Perhaps I ought to let you do _my_ job, North.”

Warily, North stared him down, not wavering in his position. “What do you want,” he demanded flatly, and Pitch gave him an odd little smirk.

He stepped closer, once, twice, brushing aside North’s sword like a toy. North straightened, confused but somehow held captive by the way Pitch looked at him, daring him to stay, compelling him into listening just this once. Pitch drew so close their chests almost touched, and then he suggested, in a low voice that shook just the slightest, “Look up.”

North stared at him for a while, expecting trickery, before he quickly glanced up, a flick of the eyes and then back. With a dawning expression of surprise, he did so again. Hanging above his head, so innocently, was a sprig of mistletoe, shiny and dark green, a few red berries jolly on the stem, held up by a twining tendril of shadow.

He glared at Pitch, tried to step back, but a hand in his coat, grabbing hard to his lapel, stopped him. “What is meaning of this?” he demanded angrily, and Pitch breathed something hollow and mocking.

“It’s your tradition, North.” Pitch’s eyes shimmered with spite.

“You are not serious,” said North disbelievingly, but Pitch wasn’t backing off. 

There was something strange hiding in his eyes, something desperate, and North considered the mad idea that Pitch was sincere. He’d obviously set this up… but why?

North was never the sort of person who backed down from a fight, although, he had to admit that he was not used to a more carnal battle than usual. He sheathed one saber and kept the other one ready, just in case. The blade gleamed in the low light, Pitch’s presence smothering its shine. His free hand lifted, and rather more tentatively than he liked to admit, he settled it heavy on Pitch’s skinny shoulder, which bowed slightly under the force of his grip.

Pitch swallowed dryly. Uncharacteristically diffident, his eyes slid away from North’s, focusing on North’s round, strong shoulder. A shaking hand half-rose, as if Pitch intended to place his hand there, and Pitch swallowed again. The hand dropped.  

North tightened his hold, keeping Pitch in place while he leaned in. He placed a brief, dry kiss on Pitch’s cheek. His lips whispered over the cool, rough skin, the texture interesting, heated by a racing blush. Pitch’s body shook under his hand, a minute tremor, and his black lips parted around a silent, shuddering sigh. His eyes fluttered closed, and Pitch resisted wobbling knees, firmly telling himself that he was being ridiculous.

It had been… so long since anyone had touched him without the intent to hurt.

He couldn’t quite stop himself from flinching when North kissed his cheek, tensing for pain that didn’t come. His mouth was dry. He opened his eyes again, found North watching him with powerful dark blue eyes, stormy with something close enough to anger that Pitch felt a nervous swooping in his gut.

“That it, _Santa?”_ he goaded, more bravely than he felt. This game was one that Pitch barely understood, had never been a part of in his conscious memory, but the solidity of North’s hand on his shoulder, the heat radiating through a skinny frame used for too long to the chill of isolation, and the searing, pulsing tingle that originated where North’s lips had touched his cheek convinced him he wanted to try. He licked his lips.

North’s eyes followed the motion, dropped to his lips like he was starving and Pitch was a feast he couldn’t wait to consume. A cold smile bared his teeth, and Pitch was reminded, as his legs threatened to buckle again at the intensity of it, that North had been and still was a very skilled warrior who had direly beaten Pitch more than once.

Pitch had never been looked at like someone wanted him before.

North sheathed his other sword, confident Pitch wouldn’t attack. Somehow his instinct knew that this had been Pitch’s plan all along. That was all the warning Pitch had before North’s heavy hand was resting possessively on his hip, yanking him into North’s body, and his lips were forcefully crushing the air from his lungs.

He was like a man drowning, the hand on North’s lapel convulsively tight, head tilted back and cheeks seared violet, gimlet eyes closed and slightly breathless. He swayed. North was rough, his tongue plunging into Pitch’s mouth and trying to coax the other’s tongue into play. He gripped Pitch’s thin jaw tightly, keeping his mouth open and preventing a bite. The sharp angles of Pitch’s cheeks and chin brushed over his skin like blades hidden under skin, hollow and frail. North could feel the knobbles of his vertebrae under his broad, splayed palm.

North grunted. Pitch was just standing there, eyes wide and shocked, mouth open, struggling to breathe as North left him no mercy. His spine bowed back under the onslaught, and if it weren’t for North’s hand on his back, trapping him in the kiss, he would have fallen. North could feel the fear spirit shaking, though from what, he could not name.

The realisation that something was wrong came quickly, and North acted just as swiftly, breaking the kiss to let Pitch scramble for oxygen. His golden eyes were very wide, fearful, nervous. His dark tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Nervous… why would Pitch be nervous – oh, North was a fool. Pitch had always been alone when he’d fought against them, save for temporary and unsavoury alliances, but North had never thought he’d never so much as _kissed_ anyone before. All at once, it occurred to North that the amount of friendly touch Pitch had received in the last few centuries had been rather small, though North had always imagined with the Nightmare King being as beautiful as he was, he would have no shortage of partners throughout the years.

Something that rang of his past as a glory-seeking bandit warmed in triumphant and virile victory at the thought that he, Nicholas St North, would claim the Nightmare King’s first kiss, had been selected to do so, in fact. A curious pride welled up in him; Pitch had concocted this plan to snare him in particular. North didn’t ponder why.

Well, now he had something to prove.

Leaning forward just enough, North brushed their lips together again, ever so tenderly. Pitch’s breath stuttered in his lungs. North hovered there, waiting for Pitch to muster the initiative to respond.

After a few moments, he did so, cautiously repeating North’s earlier action. North found himself smiling and made no effort to stop as Pitch did it again, and then again, evidently gaining confidence. It was a sweet kiss, rather endearing in its innocence.

Rubbing Pitch’s cheekbone with his thumb, North caught Pitch’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucked.

Pitch jumped. His breath steadied. Boldly, he pressed his body to North’s warm, solid one, secretly trying to memorise the safe way North pulled him close, the absentminded rub of his spine that made heat throb through his blood, the taste of sugar and peppermint on his tongue, North’s scratchy beard against his chin and rasping over his chest, bared by his robe. Shivers possessed him as the roughness abraded oversensitive nerves, and he might have whimpered into North’s mouth.

North felt a low burn in his centre. Pitch’s wonder at the strong yet gentle surety of his strong hands, from which he had only known pain, his kiss, the closeness Pitch didn’t believe he deserved but desperately desired lit like a quiet flame inside him, and North couldn’t work out who was responding to it more, himself, marvelling at the angles and edges of Pitch’s lithe, lean body, the sounds he tried to bite back, or Pitch.

He had never, even in his wildest dreams – or nightmares, he supposed – would have thought that he would one day kiss Pitch Black as intimately a lover would, and _enjoy it._

The sprig of mistletoe fell onto North’s hat, ignored as the shadow holding it dissolved, its master so thoroughly distracted that his control ebbed. Richness bled into the darkness around them, shadows taking advantage of Pitch’s absence to _stretch,_ languidly dipping into the hulking shadow cast by North from the yellow lamplight nearby, crawling over the walls like fleshless snakes. Prickles of anxiety raced up and down his body as chilling goosebumps, a tense knot of worry pooling in North’s stomach that was almost immediately dissolved by the heat from Pitch’s mouth, just wary enough to sharpen his wits and enhance his senses.

Sparks lit from North’s blunt fingertips, travelling directly into Pitch’s body as small, pleasurable shocks to his nerves, small, brilliant bright flames of inspiration, creativity, _wonder._ He moaned as his mind fell over itself, imagining a world where North wouldn’t leave but continued, what his skilled hands would feel devoting themselves to Pitch’s body, exploring his most sensitive places and targeting those that would make him scream. The vivid images were so lifelike that he was helpless against them.

When the need for air grew too strong to ignore, North pulled away, breathing deeply and surprised at himself.

This was Pitch Black – his enemy, and he would do well not to forget it. He stepped back, coldness settling over his expression like a shroud, the sobering reminder chasing the bizarre and curiously intense feelings that still spun, dizzying like pinwheeling butterflies somewhere around his beating heart, away.

Pitch stared back. His cheeks were flushed as his chest rose and fell sharply with each gasping breath, and his long fingered grey hand was placed delicately on the wall of the alley, for balance. North could see the slightest hint of a tremble to his knees, those coltish legs struggling to hold him up. The flush had spread all over his chest like an indigo bruise, North noticed, and wondered just how far it went down. Snow tussled in Pitch’s hair, brief splashes of pale.

He shook those thoughts from his mind as Pitch slowly regained himself. North stepped back again, catching a flash of panic on Pitch’s face half a second before he heard something crunch under his boot.  He lifted it quickly, and saw the sprig of mistletoe, crushed irreparably, the red berries split open by the force of his weight, save for one, bright red and glistening faintly.

Pitch fell to his knees, immune to the cold, though his breath plumed and his thin body was quickly crowned with falling snowflakes. He snatched up the broken sprig. He cradled it in his cupped hands tenderly, like a little light against the dark. He did not look up.

Guilt, unexpected and inexplicable, battled with North’s need to leave and distance himself. He hesitated, awkwardly torn between the senseless, sudden desire to stay and the greater, more sensible urge to go before Pitch roused himself enough to attack and drive him away. North was under no illusions that this little experiment of Pitch’s was anything more than that, a curiosity, a brief indulgence.

But Pitch’s shoulders were bowed and his head lowered, the subservient position looking all wrong and sitting uncomfortable with North’s noble and good heart. He did not like to leave anyone in the cold at Christmastime, regardless of whether they were friend or foe.

Pitch had proven that he couldn’t be tamed with a truce, again and again. North had no choice. This was a one-off occasion, it was foolish to ponder anything more. Steeling his heart, North ignored the pangs of grief that whispered of chances lost.

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving faint imprints of red mistletoe berries in the fresh, clean snow. Pitch Black clutched the broken sprig, on his knees and all alone in the dark street of swirling December snow.

North didn’t look back once.


	5. silver bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short and sweet

“Oh, you _are not_ serious,” Pitch hissed scathingly.

North gave him his biggest grin. “I think it looks well on you,” he said soothingly. “Besides, you must stop sneaking up on us. Sandy nearly killed _you!”_

Pitch yanked on the silver bell affixed to his collar with the most thunderous scowl North had ever seen. “I’m not some- some cat!”

“Of course not, ангел мой.”

Pitch glowered at him. “You will pay for this,” he snarled. “You will _pay._ There won’t be a child in the world who doesn’t run screaming from the sound of your silver bells once I’m done!”

North smiled at him and patted his shoulder. “I will take my chances, my dear.”

 


	6. st nicholas and the krampus part iii

“It was Sandy’s idea,” said Pitch, quickly, blushing and determinedly avoiding North’s eyes.

North stared. “Oh,” he said, diplomatically. “It’s… ah. Something new?”

“If you don’t like it I can just change back,” said Pitch, glowering at the ground. He looked so disconsolate that North felt suddenly guilty.

Pitch had been going on about trying to do something special for him on Christmas for weeks… But North had never imagined that it would look… well… so… like one of Sandy’s ideas. Though why he thought North would enjoy bedding a furry half-goat with wicked horns and shackles, North did not want to know.

The form Pitch had assumed stood nearly taller than North himself, with great, glossy ebony horns that curved back like a ram’s, a thick neck and muscled shoulders needed to support them. He was built like a bear, bands of muscle wrapped around his chest, all covered by jet black fur so dark it seemed to suck in the light. His long, beautiful legs had been swapped out for a hunching cloven-footed gait, and a long forked tail. Even the beauty of his eyes seemed to have been reduced to a flat, glaring yellow, and his clawed hands had been bound together with a length of clanking chains. It was monstrously macabre, exactly the sort of beast to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who saw it.

“No,” said North, uncomfortably. He tried to smile, glancing the form over again. He supposed the fur looked nice…? “It’s fine. I am always thinking you are very beautiful, Pitch.” His smile was a little too wide, but the statement, at least, was true. Pitch’s body was as fluid as the shadows he controlled, waxing and waning with his powers, and North had always known he was in love with the spirit inside, not the flesh he was wearing.

Shyly, Pitch’s terrifying yellow eyes met his, and his shoulders bowed slightly, pleased and flattered even if he wouldn’t admit it. “You really like it?” He sounded so hopeful and relieved. Even the endearing familiarity of Pitch’s diffidence was thrown off by the ugly, blunt face, upon which such an expression was more comical than anything else.

“ _Of course_ I do,” North lied warmly, hesitantly reaching out and placing his palm on Pitch’s shoulder. At least the fur was soft, like down feathers, and North had no problem rubbing his fingers through the thick, straight hair, up to Pitch’s sensitive scalp. He caressed the odd protuberances of the horns, and Pitch sighed, swaying into his embrace. The horns were oily and pleasantly smooth to the touch.

Somehow, the new face was even more unnerving with his eyes closed. Reptilian and soiled grey, his lips jutted to make room for the blunt, square teeth hidden behind them. Nonetheless, the way Pitch was tilting his head up was familiar to North, and bitterly, North cursed his inability to deal with letting Pitch down.

The kiss was admittedly not one of North’s finest. Awkward and somewhat rushed, the new body was strange, and North couldn’t shake the feeling he was somehow being unfaithful to Pitch, slender and gorgeous and normally whimpering by this point, long neck extended as North’s lips worshipped his grey skin, sharp nails clawing North’s shoulders through his heavy coat. The new body was just too different, and finally, North broke off with a grimace.

“You know what,” he said slowly, “I am very tired from Christmas. Perhaps we could just… cuddle, tonight?” He tugged playfully on one of Pitch’s horns, and Pitch whined softly.

…Interesting.

“If you-” Pitch began.

“No, no,” North cut him off, “I always like seeing you, no matter what shape you’re in, but I’d rather a thousand nights of you in whatever _you_ feel comfortable in than whatever you think would please me.”

Pitch blushed warmly, and a shimmer of darkness hazed over his form. When it cleared, he was his usual self, arms crossed over his stomach and head staring down at the floor. “You aren’t tired of me?”

North grinned, tilting Pitch’s chin up for a brief kiss. “How could I ever be tired of you?” he teased, “You are enough to keep any man on his toes.”  He made a face. “Especially with such freezing feet.” More than once he’d been rudely awoken by positively _icy_ feet being jammed into the small of his back, and cruel laughter when he’d yelped, abruptly torn from sleep.

Pitch smirked unrepentantly. “You shouldn’t live somewhere surrounded by ice if you are bothered by the cold,” he pointed out archly.

North grumbled, and as revenge, swung Pitch into his arms, ignoring Pitch’s distressed flailing and angry squawks. “I am being serious about wanting to sleep tonight. If you and your cold feet wake me up again, I will put you outside.”

“If you try and make me sleep on the couch, I will give you nightmares for the rest of your life,” Pitch snarled.

Snorting, North replied, “Ah, that would require sleep, so no cold feet.”

He threw Pitch down on the bed, chuckling as the force of the action drove the breath from the slender Boogeyman’s lungs. Pitch glowered at him, the effect somewhat ruined by his scrambling for breath.

“ _Brute.”_

“Yes, ангел мой,” said North, sliding into bed and manfully swallowing several curses when Pitch’s glacial feet tussled with his own.

Mollified, Pitch sniffed. As they lay, North played idly with Pitch’s hair, and did what he did best, wondered. Perhaps, with Pitch’s reaction what it was, horns could be something they experimented with. 

Pitch’s foot rubbed North’s calf, and North petted his skinny thigh absently. Pitch’s lips curled up in a hidden smile of happiness, head carefully turned so that North couldn’t see. He’d never live it down.

Nonetheless, perhaps North was due a little chat with Sandy about certain ideas when it came to Pitch and Christmas presents.


	7. missed you kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emotional manipulation

There was a bell on North’s door. One that had not been used for centuries, so long that the knowledge of it had passed into legend. It was nothing particularly special looking, a simple, sturdy door, a heavy brass knocker enchanted to not freeze or chill in the glacial weather. Upon the door, there were words in thirteen different ancient dialects, and they all read ’ _Sanctuary shall be granted to those in need.’_

Christmas was a time for gift-giving, and what better gift than the gift of safety? But it was also a time for coming together, and celebrating life and the beginning of the end of winter, a harsh test to many.

This door was not always as abandoned as it was now. In the Dark Ages, the pinnacle of spiritual belief, thousands had come at all times of the year in their droves, the weak, the weary, the lonely. North would welcome them and do his best to bring back the light of wonder in eyes that were too jaded and broken to remember how to look on their own. As years had passed, so had so many of this diverse, wondrous population, until those that were left were either nothing more than discredited fairy tales or cheap bribes for children.

It had been years, centuries, even, since anyone had last knocked on the door. It was understandable, then, that when the unmistakeable _boom, boom, boom,_ of a familiar knock resounded through the Workshop that North took a few minutes to remember what it was even for.

As soon as he did, he leapt to his feet and began directing his stunned yetis to prepare a guest room, food, draw a warm bath. Once North knew the identity of the spirit, he could give more specific instructions to cater to their individual requirements.

A beaming smile lit up his face as he strode to the door, barely noticing elves scurrying out of the way of his heavy footfalls. It would be good to air out the old rooms for a while, and exchange stories with a new face the way he used to. His mind was abuzz with who it could possibly be.

North’s brain slammed to a screeching halt the moment he threw open the door, his words stopping in his throat. The last person he had ever expected to see there again was slumped at the entrance, a weary, mirthless smirk and grey skin so translucent North could see the brightness of the ice through his faded shadow.

_Pitch Black? Here, at the Pole?_

The Guardian stared, taken aback, down at Pitch, who turned his head with such obvious effort that North almost wanted to tell him not to bother. His words were slurred, blurry with confusion and delirium. He was bleeding spider silk and poison, slick and ruby against his ashen skin.

“Do…I-” A wracking cough. “Count as…in need?”

“You are welcome,” said North, carefully neutral, “…As are all.” He extended a hand to help Pitch up, who stared at his hand as if he could no longer quite remember what to do.

This was not the first time Pitch Black had come to him in this way, but North had believed for a long time the memory of that brief, halcyon agreement - a knock, a mocking smirk and later, Pitch’s body splayed over North’s bedsheets like a wonder North never could resist, no matter the hurts he had caused and the knowledge that he would be gone in the morning, leaving nothing but a shadow of the night – had been shattered by the cruellest and most vengeful fights of all. He had shot and _killed_ Sandy, nearly snuffed out the Guardians. For the first time in thousands of years, he had tried not just to kill them but _eradicate all trace_ of their existence.

North did not know where they stood. He did not know if he could slip so easily back into that desperate, lovestruck fool he had been once, led along like a puppet on a string by a teasing shadow-master until Pitch had finally saw fit to shatter his delusions of the Nightmare King’s true character.

He wouldn’t, by choice. He was wary of this creature, on his guard.

Pitch’s hand felt as light as a moth’s wing and about as fragile when he settled it in North’s broad palm, thin fingers curling over the warmth of North’s skin. North had to more pull than help him to his feet, and if it hadn’t been for a quick hand steadying his shoulder, Pitch would have toppled right over again.

The Boogeyman swayed, a pained wince etched into his face as the world spun around him. North supported him without a word, Pitch’s emaciated frame leaning heavily against North’s broad shoulders as he limped across the threshold.

Phil the yeti met his eyes with a dark look at the sight of Pitch, but remained respectfully silent at North’s minute head-shake. Pitch had come as per the old law, and was bound as their guest.

“A bath has been drawn for you, but if you would like to eat first, there is food available,” North translated from Phil.

Pitch sagged against North, breathing in the warm cinnamon spice of his scent. “Something warm and somewhere to lie down would be nice,” he murmured, too tired to stop himself from pressing into North’s broad arm encircling his back, ripples of goosebumps over his skin whenever North’s roughly calloused hands brushed his skin through a rent in his robe.

Their progress towards the room was slow, hindered by Pitch’s hobbling step and North knowing better than to sweep the injured Boogeyman up into his arms and walk there himself. It would have been no burden on North’s strength, but Pitch’s pride needed to be tended to almost more than his body.

North still bore scars from the last time he had assumed Pitch would just choose the _easiest_ option.

The steam from the hot bath seeped out of the cracks of the door, only a few candles lit to provide light for North’s human eyes, pandering to Pitch’s shadow-sensitive vision. Pitch sighed once the darkness enveloped them, head tilting back in bliss. The shadows of his robe peeled away from his skin, leaving him bare and silvery in the darkness, the raised angles of his bones deeply hollowed in a glorious contrast.

North swallowed, because curses take him, Pitch was still so beautiful even when broken, the arch of his long neck, the grace of his long back, his slow, cautious movements as he slipped into the steaming water. He suddenly ached with the urge to pin those delicate looking wrists above Pitch’s head, lavish that thin, angled body with all the worship it deserved, a true wonder beyond compare. North knew the sounds Pitch would make, had memorised them, the soft sighs and gasps, hitched moans when North teased him, the exultant cries and pleas North could wring from his desperate throat.

It would be so easy, to forget all the past that had brought them here and revert to the casual arrangement North had thought was so much more, but to Pitch had only ever been a way to pass the time. It would be so easy, but it would be so wrong. He feared what Pitch could make him do, and knew Pitch felt it by the tired way he looked at North.

The Boogeyman’s eyes glittered silver and gold in the darkness, but there was no shine in his rasping voice when he said softly, “I broke something, didn’t I?”

North peeled off his coat and fetched the soap and a loofah from a shelf. The Guardian’s face was set and still, and he did not reply. The question did not deserve an answer, the past belonged where it was, the past.

“Stars,” Pitch breathed softly, reclining against the tub and wincing when the position aggravated his sore body. There was so little padding between skin and bone, none at all.“You’re terrified of yourself. But not of me.” Bitter amusement.

Ignoring his words, North sat beside the tub and poured a generous dollop of shampoo onto his hands. He gestured wordlessly for Pitch to tip his head back, and with a soft exhale, Pitch did as he was told, eyes fluttering closed as North rubbed the shampoo into his hair.

“Nngh,” he sighed, “You always had…such good hands.” He tilted his head, pressed his scalp against North’s blunt fingers and moaned quietly when North obliged the wordless request, scraping his nails against Pitch’s sensitive scalp. Long grey fingers clutched the edges of the tub convulsively, knuckles whitening with the force of the grip as Pitch fought off the part of him that, aching for kind touch after so long, begged to throw himself at North’s mercy. _Oh please god don’t you dare fucking stop._

North’s hands paused slightly before he forced himself to continue. Pitch, here, familiar in this darkness, tantalising smirk and taunting fool’s gold eyes, it was too familiar, and heat was warming North’s skin into a flush, reminding him of _other_ times that had ended far more favourably than this one would. He was a temptation, but North was not the blind fool he had been before.

“Did you think that just because we were fucking I wouldn’t fight you?” Pitch asked him, eyes opening and catching North’s gaze before he could look away. Trapped under that lazy, catlike stare, he was compelled to reply.

“No.” His voice came out gravelly, rough, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “But…”

“But what? Come now North, you can’t have been _so_ bli-”

“You did not come back.” North interrupted him. Without a word, he tipped a cup of water over Pitch’s head, covering his eyes to protect them from the soapy water, forcing silence for a moment. His face was like stone.

“I didn’t come back,” Pitch repeated softly, and there was something on his face, something quietly mournful, or perhaps it was just the absence of mockery around his thin lips. North had once thought he could read Pitch well, or at least better than most. “Oh. _Oh.”_

North’s face burned as he turned away, unable to bear the mockery he knew would come. The _surprise_ in Pitch’s voice, the dawning realisation, each word fell as if it were weighted with bricks. Only North, able to see the wonder and light in _everything,_ could delude himself into thinking there was light to be found in the heart of Pitch Black.

“Gods, North, how was I supposed to know you were in love with me?” Pitch demanded, and North wanted to laugh at the frustration in his tone. Pitch had always found human emotion so dreadfully _messy._

“It would have been obvious, to anyone else. But you always did find it so difficult to look past yourself,” North said neutrally, and Pitch barked rough laughter, more amused than insulted. It was the truth, he was an inherently selfish creature. Fear was self-preservation, after all.

“I suppose I deserved that, considering I tried to kill you.”

No response. Pitch shifted a little, evidently used to the sound of his own voice, and not particularly bothered by North’s unresponsiveness. Nonetheless, perhaps he had learned something whilst on his own, for he gentled his voice into something soft and nearly _tender,_ as if it really were a confession from an old lover rather than Pitch imitating emotions he didn’t understand. “Would you believe me, if I said I have missed you?”

“I cannot believe that.” It came out louder than North expected it to, harshly disbelieving and mocking Pitch’s attempt, who simply shrugged, undisturbed by the rebuttal.

“I cannot feel love, North. Is that what you want from me? A lie? I can do that.” He seemed to be genuinely serious when North turned to look at him in disbelief. He had turned onto his stomach, somehow soundless in the water, and propped himself up by his elbows on the edge of the tub.

“ _No.”_

Pitch’s eyes glinted, respect perhaps, amusement more likely, and he crooked a finger commandingly at the Guardian, who moved forwards without quite knowing why. Pitch was the weak one here, all but powerless, in North’s own home, surrounded by North’s allies, and yet he was effortlessly in control, manipulating North as skilfully as if he were a spider, a puppeteer dancing on lines of shadow.

Pushing himself up by his hands and only wincing a little, Pitch twined shadows into North’s beard and yanked, sending him stumbling forward with a half formed curse.

Even powerless, Pitch’s shadows were _malicious._

Pitch wrapped one damp, sleek grey arm around his neck, wet cheek pressed to his own, fingers weaving into his hair. His slender form pushed up against North’s comfortably padded one, and his hot breath ghosting against his jaw made North shudder despite himself.

“When you are not there, on the slow days when my shadows are silent, when I remember how you treat me, when I am almost… _human_ , I miss you then. But that’s not enough for you, is it?” Pitch murmured, lips moving against his skin as he spoke like the damp wings of a butterfly. North’s hands itched to fall on Pitch’s waist, gleaming in the dark from the water, but he restrained himself, instead doing his best to pull away.

“Should it be?” He was frowning, and the question serious. Pitch chuckled, splayed his fingers on North’s cheeks and rubbed his nose against North’s in an uncharacteristically gentle move.

“You are the only one who would make me regret being unable to feel love.”

He caught North’s top lip between his teeth and nibbled, hard enough that North grunted and fit the curve of Pitch’s skull into one palm, taking control of the kiss with a familiarity that was as damning as it was alluring. Pitch’s skull was small against the power of his hand, hollow like bird bones, wet hair curling against his stubby fingers, workman’s hands, and North knew that if he truly wanted to, he could crush Pitch’s skull like an egg. He wouldn’t and they both knew it. North was no danger to Pitch.

Pitch’s mouth tasted of rich wine and forbidden fruit, and his tongue was a slippery, sinuous thing, worming its way into North’s startled mouth before he knew how to react. He pulled on North’s beard hard enough to make him wince and grinned, sharp teeth pricking beads of blood on North’s lips. North’s hand gripped his forearm hard, almost lifting him entirely from the bath.

When they broke apart, breathing fast and Pitch’s eyes gleaming with satisfaction and expectation, North pressed bruises into Pitch’s grey skin. “You lie the same way you did years ago,” he cursed him softly, and Pitch smirked.

“You still believe me every time.”


End file.
